Thranduil stared at the woman who had given birth to his grandson. She was drawn and pale, her skin oddly cool beneath his fingertips. Her golden hair was brittle, her lips without blood. At the very least her fever had gone down, but she'd not woken in many hours. It had been some time since she'd been given a draught. They had hoped it would bring her about, strengthen her, yet no result had appeared besides the dropping of her temperature. But for all that she had not stirred, not even when her son had been brought to her side. The healers simply shrugged. They could do nothing for her unless she woke from her deep slumber.

"You've given my son a great joy, and an equally great burden. 'Tis the sweetest sort of joy and weight that he could ever hope to carry. But it will embitter him not having you to share it with." He brushed her hair back as one might do for a child. "It is not something I wish upon him." Thranduil glanced towards the closed doors. "He sleeps now. I will speak freely, my daughter." There was a pause during which he gathered his thoughts. I know exactly what I tell you. When my son's mother died, I blamed it on him."

Without doubt Éowyn would have been shocked by his words if she could react. It was not an admission easily made. Thranduil had fought himself over and over again regarding this decision. Yet he hoped that sharing the tale with her he could somehow determine the woman to come back, or rather to remain as she hadn't left at all. If by admitting to past weakness he could do that, Thranduil would hold nothing back; for himself and all others he would speak the truth.

"I couldn't even look at him," Thranduil whispered. "Legolas' mother died giving birth to him. It was a cruel way to go, crueller than most would dare think. I have slain men on the battlefield and I have had my share of wounds. But I vow, nothing prepared me for the birthing chambers." He though she'd moved and held his silence for a brief second. "I wasn't even there for the worst of it. I could hear her crying, and I just sat outside unable to do anything for her." He'd been as powerless as his son was now.

Legolas was not like him though. Legolas held his child in his arms. He could still glance upon his son and not see his wife's face twisting in pain as her life left her. His son had come home to a woman almost dead. Legolas had not seen the woman he loved bleed, and bleed, and bleed until she had no more to give. The new father had not witnessed the colour draining from his woman's face. But both Thranduil and Legolas had felt the same sort of desperation. The question was if his son would have the power to get through were he to lose Éowyn. Would he have the power to live? Or even the desire?

"My solution was to pull away. I would spend days avoiding the nursery. Legolas had everything he wanted, but not everything he needed. Later on the rift began to mend, but it never felt quite right. It still doesn't."

Éowyn's eyes opened slowly. She looked at the elf with understanding. Thranduil was greatly shaken. She had been listening. Not merely hearing; his almost daughter had heard every word of his and was now regarding him with exhausted eyes. Her lips moved but no words came out.

At that exact moment Legolas chose to come in the room. He took one look to his wife and hurried to her side. "You're awake." Wonder and relief and joy mixed within that utterance.